


familiar, unbidden

by ohjustpeachy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Avengers (2012), Postcards, Road Trips, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers's Motorcycle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohjustpeachy/pseuds/ohjustpeachy
Summary: Tony was a great friend, and an even better teammate, once they got past the ugliness of their first few weeks together. He didn’t want to mess it up. He didn’t want to fall for the first person who was kind to him, who looked at him like a person rather than a medical marvel or a tactical miracle, in his whole long life. How pathetic would that be?Or, after a near-kiss with Tony, Steve takes off on a cross-country road trip in the hopes of making peace with his past and his present.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 367





	familiar, unbidden

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I wanted to see Steve on his road trip of sadness, and then this consumed me for two weeks! The title is from the Elizabeth Bishop poem, 'Song for the Rainy Season.'
> 
> Thanks to Nadine again for being the most thoughtful and enthusiastic beta! <3

**_Pennsylvania_ **

Steve doesn’t look at his phone until he’s somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, when he has no choice but to stop for gas. Part of him hates that he even has the thing, but a much larger part knows that he’ll find a message from Tony waiting for him, and after the way he left things, well... He’s not sure if he’s entirely ready to see what the man has to say. 

Not that Steve can say he blames him. 

He forces himself to power the phone back on, waits for it to light up, and sure enough, there it is, the small red dot over the messages icon. Steve lets his finger hover over it for just a second longer, thanks the gas station attendant, and opens the message as he sits back down on the seat of his motorcycle. The engine roars to life beneath him as he reads it once, then a second time, swallowing hard. 

_Bon voyage, Cap. Do me a favor and be safe out there, alright? I know you’re all muscle but just… take care of yourself. Maybe send a postcard every now and then, let me know you’re alive, since I know your inner retiree hates the idea of a cell phone. I’ll be here when you get back._

Steve stares at the words until the screen goes dark again, until more cars turn into the tiny gas station lot, forcing him to shove the phone back into his pocket and start moving once more. He’d answer Tony when he had something to say. Something that isn’t as simple and unfeeling as _thanks,_ or _I will,_ but not as needy as _please don’t hate me when I get back._

He was, after all, the one who took off after whatever it was that had started between them. Steve had always planned to leave, at least for a little while, to see what else was out there. He’d spent all of his life before the war in one place, and then in basic training one state over. Then the war had started in earnest, and everything had gone dark. 

Tony liked to remind Steve that he had a lot of living still to do. He didn’t say it in so many words, of course, Tony preferred to show him: movies, places, restaurants, music. They’d started spending so much more time together, what with Tony on an endless quest to show him all the things he’d missed, that Steve almost didn’t notice the way his stomach would tense, tightening and turning over, when Tony would hand him something and let their hands brush a moment too long. When he’d look over during movie night, or a team dinner, and Tony would look up, like they were connected by some invisible, electric thread, and smile at him, bright and true. 

Steve didn’t have a ton of romantic experience, but he wasn’t an idiot. He just didn’t know if Tony felt it too, or if they’d spent so much time together that Steve was imagining all of it. Tony was a great friend, and an even better teammate, once they got past the ugliness of their first few weeks together. He didn’t want to mess it up. He didn’t want to fall for the first person who was kind to him, who looked at him like a _person_ rather than a medical marvel or a tactical miracle, in his whole long life. How pathetic would that be? 

So, after months of this, the not-knowing and the stomach churning moments, Tony had leaned in, and Steve had been positive, down to his bones, that the man was going to kiss him, and he froze. They’d fallen silent after one of their more pointless arguments, about what toppings _deserve_ to be on pizza, and at some point, Tony had moved in closer, until Steve looked up and he was right there. 

Close enough to touch. Close enough to _kiss_. 

But instead of voicing his worries, or better yet, closing the gap, to hell with his deep-seated insecurities, and _kissing him first,_ Steve had blurted out: “I’m leaving.”

Tony took it in stride, of course, nodding and asking the right questions, but Steve could see the hurt in his eyes in the days leading up to his departure. Only three day after their near-kiss. 

Steve couldn’t explain it, why he had to go. It was like something inside him had to know for sure that he _could_ do it. Survive, out there in the world, all on his own. He hadn’t had much of a chance before the Battle of New York, and the more roots he put down in the Tower and with the team, the worse he felt. The way he felt about Tony was one thing, but then there was the whole other list of things. The _starting over_ thing. The _living-a-life-without-his-friends-and-family_ thing. The _living-without-_ anything _-he’d-ever-known_ thing. Steve was a stranger, even in his hometown. Even in the Tower Tony had carefully built for them. The SHIELD-appointed therapist he’d started seeing called it Survivor’s Guilt, but even that didn’t feel like enough to encompass what was happening in the murky gray on his own mind. 

Steve feels like a man out of time, often painfully so. And before he could embark on this new life, this new … whatever it is with Tony, he had to do something just for himself. 

So, Steve tells himself, the right words would come to him eventually. At least, he hopes they will. For now, Steve finds himself stuck on the last line of Tony’s text. _I’ll be here when you get back_. He tries not to read it as the promise it sounds like, trying instead to remind himself that before everything happened that last night, he and Tony were colleagues. _Friends_ , even, and that was more than likely all he would return to. 

He just had to learn to be okay with that. 

In the meantime, Steve lets the hum of the engine and the long, winding road lull him. He lets his mind wander, until he’s far away from the year 2012, away from the serum and the Avengers. Steve lets his mind dance all the way back to that tiny apartment in Brooklyn with Bucky and his ma, and for once, he doesn’t force himself to push the thoughts aside. It’s painful but freeing, and, he realizes, just what he needs. 

When his eyes feel too heavy to continue driving safely, he pulls into a small roadside hotel. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, and the woman at the front desk smiles kindly, lets him pay for the night in cash, and doesn’t seem to bat an eye at the fact that Captain America just walked, baggy-eyed and sweaty, into her establishment at almost midnight. 

It’s perfect, and Steve collapses onto the too-small hotel bed before he can come up with something to text back to Tony. 

Steve wakes up feeling rested, all the way down to his bones, and he’s almost surprised at how much _better_ he feels, just being out here in the world like this. He hasn’t had much time alone up to now, aside from the few weeks before Fury came to recruit him. But even then, it had been endless weeks of culture shock and loneliness, wondering how on earth he was going to come to terms with what had happened, let alone build a life in a century he was never supposed to live to see. He’d missed it, being out on the open road, in a way he didn’t know he _could_ miss something so intangible. Steve leaves the hotel just after nine in the morning, and stops at the diner beside it for a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and coffee, with rye toast to round it all out. 

“Classic. You’re easy, I like that,” the waitress says when he orders. 

He nods, gives her a small, tight-lipped smile. “I guess I like what I like,” he shrugs. “Thank you, ma’am,” he adds. 

“Ma’am! Oh, I like you, alright,” the waitress, whose name tag tells Steve is named Sheila, laughs. “I wish every man who walked in here was like you…” She trails off, clearly waiting for Steve to say his name, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He freezes for a fraction of a second, then says:

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.” The lie tumbles out with ease, but Sheila just shoots him another smile and tells him she’ll be back in a jiff with his breakfast. 

_A jiff._ It’s such an old-fashioned word that Steve smiles back at her, a real one this time. Friendly people, a good nights’ sleep, he was only one day in, but maybe this whole trip would be exactly what Steve had hoped for after all. 

“So, Bucky Barnes,” Sheila says, materializing at Steve’s side when he finishes eating, “What brings you to town? Pardon my saying so but you don’t strike me as being from around here.” 

Steve doesn’t know what that means, _being from around here_ , but he isn’t, this much is true, so he nods. “I don’t live in town.” He’s technically new _everywhere_ , but he doesn’t need to get into that right now. “I’m… on a road trip. Seeing the sights.” 

“Seeing the sights,” Sheila repeats. “You sound like an old soul, honey, right after my own heart. You let me know if the sights bring you back this way, you hear? We could use more nice guys like you.” 

Steve nods, feeling his face warm at the kind words. Like the hotel receptionist, Sheila doesn’t seem to know who he is, and her kindness feels genuine. He could almost see her at the old Moonlight Diner in Brooklyn. He and his Ma would go there on special occasions, eating pancakes until they were nearly too full to move, his mother chatting with the waitresses who would in turn coo over Steve, who had always been too small for his age. Sheila would have fit in well there, laughing and gossiping with the patrons who came to feel more like friends and family than paying customers. 

The memory washes over him like a cresting wave, and Steve has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present. Letting himself think about things like this, his ma and the diner, and those people he knew, it’s all new to him. He’d spent so much time pushing them down, fighting them back, whether it was with a punching bag or on a battlefield or in a sparring session, _feeling_ was something he’d once known well, and was now something rare, another thing he had to reacquaint himself with in this new world. 

As Steve walks up to the register to pay (after, of course, leaving Sheila a generous tip, along with his promise to come back if he’s ever in the area again), he nearly knocks over the small rack of postcards on the counter. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes to the woman at the register.

“First day with your new feet?” She teases him, and he almost wants to say yes. 

Instead, he confronts the serendipitousness of the postcards being there in the first place. He eyes them. Should he send Tony a postcard? It might be easier to write something out on paper, without the pressure of the small blinking cursor. But then again, what if that message was Tony being Tony, and it was more offhand comment than any real request for correspondence? 

But… 

Steve takes a deep breath. He could think himself in circles all day, he realizes, frustrated. As the cashier looks at him, he grabs two postcards from the display, one with a friendly _Welcome to Pennsylvania_ sign, the other of the liberty bell. He can decide what to write and if he should send them later, he reasons. 

“These too, please,” he says, and slides them across the counter.

*

**_Ohio_ **

Steve spends most of the day driving, making his way across Pennsylvania, until he crosses into Ohio somewhere right around dusk, at the golden hour of the day, when the sun is high in the sky and drenching everything in warm, honeyed light. It makes him stop in his tracks, the beauty of the day in the moment, and he pulls to the side of the road and lifts his face to the sky, a flower unfurling its petals, a man just waking up. He soaks it in until the sun sinks, lower and lower until it's out of view. 

By the time he kicks his bike into gear again, it’s dark, which feels like as good a time as any to call it a day. Steve loves this about his journey: he’s accountable to no one. He can make his own choices and come and go as he pleases. It occurs to him that he’s never had this luxury before, never had this perfect alignment of money, time, and good health that would _allow_ for such freedom. 

_Nice_ feels like too small of a word to describe this feeling he has. 

That night, Steve has dinner at a small dive bar, just a few minutes away from a hotel. He seats himself at the bar, orders a beer ( _whatever you recommend,_ he tells the bartender), and lets himself pretend that just for one night, he was just another guy at a bar, drinking away the perils of the work week. He could be anyone here, he realizes. The place was full of guys, alone, in groups, drinking beer and commiserating. Steve longs to be one of them. Longs to get drunk, just one time. 

Instead, he orders a burger and fries, and makes small talk with Dave the bartender when he has a free moment between customers. 

“You’re new here,” Dave says to Steve, who has to stop and wonder if there’s something about him, something in his face, his very DNA, that alerted people that he didn’t belong. In the diner in Pennsylvania, in this dive bar in god-knows-where-Ohio, Steve was _not from around here_. How can he be, when the place he called home doesn’t exist anymore?

“I am,” Steve replies politely. “Taking a trip, seeing the sights,” he says, using the same line he’d used with Sheila. 

“Nice,” Dave says, “I could use a vacation myself.” 

Was that what this was? A vacation? The word hadn’t crossed Steve’s mind until now. 

“My first in years,” Steve says. “I was in the army,” he adds, surprising himself. 

“Wow, no kidding. So was my little brother. I admire the hell out of you guys. Thank you for your service,” Dave says seriously. He grabs another beer and holds it out to Steve. “On me. Cheers.” 

“Cheers.”

Steve eats his burger quietly after that, but he can’t help but feel just a little proud. Maybe that’s all it had to be. Small conversations, little admissions about himself, here and there, until he feels like he belongs _somewhere_. 

_You did it with Tony, didn’t you?_ The thought comes from nowhere, and Steve grimaces. He had built an unexpected friendship with Tony, it’s true. But that’s _different_ , Steve might have been asleep for seventy years, but he wasn’t so out of touch with himself to know that what he’s feeling for Tony is different than mere _friendship._

By the time Steve gets checked in and settled at another small but anonymous hotel, he’s forgotten all about the postcards he purchased in a panic that morning. When he pulls them out of his back pocket, they’re rumpled, creased from a day of riding, but still usable. 

He stares down at the small square of blank space. He doesn’t have to write much, he reasons. Can’t, even if he wanted to. Steve takes a deep breath, and reminds himself, like he did all those years ago on a training field at Camp Lehigh, that the only way forward is through. Grabbing one of the pens left in the small hotel desk drawer, Steve takes a deep breath and drops himself into the rickety chair to write. 

It’s far from poetry, or the gut-wrenching Dear John letters he watched his fellow soldiers get year after year, but it’ll do. 

_Tony,_

_You asked for a postcard, and I think I have a hard time saying no when it comes to you. I bought this in Pennsylvania, but I’m writing from Ohio. Safe to say I’m alive. There’ve been a lot of cows so far. Tell DUM-E , U, and the team ‘hi.’_

_I hope you’re well._

_Steve_

Steve had debated over how to start it. Should he have added _dear_ ? That felt like too much, at least for this first one, but now the whole thing feels a bit too formal, a little too old-fashioned. He wishes Tony had a way to write back, so that he can gauge how the other man writes. Tony’s texts seem casual enough, but somehow writing a letter, or even a postcard out, pen to paper, feel like _more_. Maybe that’s just his inner soldier talking, though. 

For better or worse, Steve leaves the postcard on the table, ready to send out the next morning after breakfast. 

That night, Steve dreams about Bucky in a way that feels so heart-wrenchingly real, he’s almost breathless. They’re on this trip together, but Steve almost doesn’t realize it at first. He looks to his left, checking for cars before switching lanes, and there he is, Bucky, just as young and vibrant as Steve remembers him. Short, close-cropped hair, a smirk on his lips like always, and already looking over at him. 

“Hey, pal,” Bucky says. 

Steve feels a rush of something, all the way through his chest, at the sound of his best friend’s voice. He hadn’t heard it in decades, but it still feels like not a moment had passed since they were together, Bucky giving him shit over some shenanigan or other, and it feels like sunlight and home and buoyant happiness. 

_Joy_ , Steve realizes. _Joy_ is what he’s feeling. It’d been so long he almost didn’t recognize it. 

He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , to speak to his best friend for the first time in years and years and he… can’t. Steve tries and tries, but for all his efforts, he can’t seem to find his voice. Bucky is still there, riding beside him, his face growing darker and more concerned the more Steve tries to call out, to say something to him. 

_Buck! I missed you. I’m sorry. I…_ His mouth is moving but there’s nothing coming out.

Then Bucky’s face changes on a dime, and he looks alarmed, suddenly. Steve realizes a second too late that he’s falling, Bucky’s about to fall off the bike, and he has to do something, he has to reach out and grab him before…

Steve wakes up gasping, trembling from head to toe, his eyes damp with tears. 

_Fuck._

He brings a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes until he sees stars, trying to wipe away the sights and sounds of the dream—the nightmare—from his memory. Steve throws himself back down onto the mattress, but knows more sleep is out of the question. He waits until the first glints of sun break through the slats in the blinds, then throws his few possessions into his backpack, grabs the bent up postcard, and decides that after he finds a mailbox, he’ll have had more than enough of the state of Ohio.

*

**_Indiana_ **

It hadn’t occurred to Steve that Tony would respond to the postcard with another text. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d respond at all, really. In Steve’s mind, he existed out here, with the postcards and his bike, and Tony felt far, far away in New York, going to meetings and puttering around his workshop. 

It puts a sharp, anxious feeling in his stomach when he turns his phone on and finds the note there, longer than the first. 

_Thanks for the postcard, Steven. Didn’t know if you’d really send one, but I’m more than a little glad to hear you’re alive, and (I think) enjoying the trip so far. You didn’t give me much to work with, but cows sound nice, actually. Sweet, but strong and not to be fucked with. Kind of like you. Cow-tipping is no joke, Cap, don’t do it. The bots say hi. They miss you. It’s embarrassing, actually. Dum-E keeps doing these sad beeps, and U is just kind of lurking behind me. Someone taught them to play catch while I worked and then vanished, and now I have to pay the price. Anyway, this is turning into a novel (take notes though, Cap) so I’ll just say the bots aren’t the only ones who miss you. Enjoy the cows and the road, but don’t forget about the people back here waiting for you._

Steve reads through the message a few times, smiling at the part about the bots. He _had_ taught them to play catch, mostly to prove to Tony that it could be done. He lingers just a bit on the last part, too. _The people back here waiting for you_. Was Tony really waiting for him? He’d been serious about the postcard, after all. And it’s… nice to be missed. To have people _to_ miss, even if two of them are, technically, robotic. Part of Steve wants to shoot a message back immediately, but something tells him that would ruin it, this thing they have going now. Steve writes, and Tony texts. 

He still has the other, unused Pennsylvania postcard, somewhere in his bag. It’s probably more rumpled than the first one at this point, but it would do until he found a store or a gift shop that sold more. Indiana wasn’t exactly teeming with stores, but it _is_ gorgeous, and Steve has so far spent longer here than he had in Pennsylvania or Ohio. Something about the air feels lighter, like he can breathe deeper than ever before. The scenery is beautiful, too, and Steve finds himself reaching into the bottom of his bag and pulling out the small notepad he’d shoved in at the last minute while packing. It’s hardly a sketchbook, but it’s something, and Steve doodles miniature trees, and long, winding streets. 

Sometimes he draws himself there, too. Usually he’s alone, but sometimes he’ll draw Bucky, right out of his dream, riding beside him. Only once, Steve draws Tony beside him. He thinks about mailing it to him with his next postcard, or even writing a letter and sticking it in the envelope, but his cheeks heat at the idea of it. 

Postcards are the way to go.

Along the way, Steve realizes that people are friendlier out here in the midwest. New Yorkers hadn’t changed during his years in the ice. They’re gritty and always in a rush, almost distrustful of others. But out here, Steve finds that people _want_ to chat with you in bars and in restaurants. More importantly, though, if anyone has recognized him, they’ve been polite enough not to say anything. 

Steve asks someone at a rest stop, a man traveling with his wife and two small kids, what there is to do around here, if someone from out of town was visiting and wanted to do something different. 

“Something I wouldn’t get in the city,” Steve says, clarifying his request. 

The man gives a knowing little nod and then seems to think of just the thing. “There’s this place, it’s called Devil’s Icebox. National park type of place, but off the beaten path a little. There are these caves there, and they’re supposed to stay the same cool temperature year round. Went once myself, years ago, and it’s true what they say. It’s spooky, and I haven’t been able to get this one to go back, thinks it’ll scare the little ones, but maybe someday. In the meantime, I’ll live vicariously through you…” 

The man trails off, in search of his name, and Steve is once again given a choice. He’s a little too stuck on the irony of someone suggesting he go to a place called something as bleakly meaningful as _Devil’s Icebox_ , so maybe he isn’t thinking when he blurts out his real name. Maybe a part of him is thinking that the last time he’d given Bucky’s name, he’d had a terrible nightmare about it, and he isn’t ready for that again. Either way, out comes the truth, for the first time on his trip. He feels a little lighter for the admission, once it’s done. 

“Steve,” he says. “Steve Rogers.” And that’s that. There’s no lightning strike of realization, there’s just the man he’s been talking to, and his wife waiting in the car, and the trip he thinks Steve should take, all the way down to some unknown caves in god-knows-where Indiana. 

The man just gives him another smile, holds out his hand for a shake, and says: “Pleasure, Steve. Matt Davis. You ever find yourself back in the area you look us up, alright? You seem like you’ve got some stories to tell, Steve Rogers.”

 _If you only knew, Matt Davis_ , Steve doesn’t say. Instead, he assures him that he’ll do just that, and watches as his red SUV pulls out of the lot. 

Steve knows he won’t be making the three hour trip (he checks, just to see) to Devil’s Icebox, but that doesn’t mean the day has gone to waste. He’d given his real name to someone and nothing terrible had happened as a result. This (admittedly small) step feels like a breakthrough. Afterward, Steve finds a small hiking trail, which seems to him like a good compromise between what he’d been suggested and what he was actually capable of doing. 

As an added bonus, the rest stop had plenty of postcards for sale, and Steve grabbed two more before he could talk himself out of it. He has a story for Tony this time, and he could finally use that last Pennsylvania postcard. Steve knows Tony would appreciate the whole Icebox thing, would laugh at the dark humor in it. And… he might have more stories, along the way. It didn’t hurt to be prepared, that’s one lesson he doesn’t need to learn twice. 

He writes a little smaller this time, giving himself a little more room to write. 

_Tony,_

_I’m glad to hear that the bots miss me, but the solution is obvious: just play catch with them until I get back. Here’s a story you might enjoy: someone suggested I visit a national park called the Devil’s Icebox today. I had to pass, for obvious reasons, but he was a nice enough guy. I even told him my name and he didn’t even bat an eye. I’ve been calling myself Bucky up until now. I can’t really explain why. Just felt easier._

_Sorry for another PA postcard, I’m not the best correspondent. I’m in Indiana now. It’s beautiful, but I think I’m just about ready to see what’s next._

_Still alive,_

_Steve_

Steve’s no stranger to processing his thoughts on paper; art had always been his outlet for that. Words were harder for him, they felt more precious, somehow. Like once you thought something and wrote it down, even more so than when you said it aloud, it couldn’t be taken back. So when he reads back over what he’s written, it’s jarring to realize he’d confided in Tony. That he’d confessed to using his dead best friend’s name all this time. Steve hadn’t known he was going to write that until it was already out there, on the card for Tony to read, but he feels like it’s important, to share this heavy thing he’d been carrying around, with someone else. 

He’s still missing the _Dear_ at the start of his note, but maybe, just maybe... they’d get there. 

*

**_Colorado_ **

The next week flies by in a blur of states and towns, small hotels and people both friendly and unfriendly. There’s more cows and corn than ever, and Steve doesn’t feel inclined to stop for longer than a single night, in most cases, so he doesn’t. It’s still novel, this freedom that he has out here on the road, and he doesn’t see himself tiring of it anytime soon. 

He realizes, one day, as the wind sweeps through his hair and the sun warms his face, that this must be why Tony loves the Iron Man suit so much. The freedom he has, flying through the sky… it’s probably like nothing else. A rush that not even 100 mph on his bike can provide. Steve makes a mental note to ask about it the next time he writes.

Tony texted him two days ago, a long message that Steve has read through more times than he cares to admit.

_Devil’s Icebox is what I’m going to call you next time we argue. The next time you try to claim that pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, just remember that you gave me this ammunition willingly ;) I’m glad to hear you’re using your own name. It’s kind of depressing to think about a world where Steve Rogers doesn’t exist, even though it’s the world I lived in most of my adult life. I know it’s hard here, carrying on seventy years in the future without Bucky, or even your old army buddies. Hell, even without my asshole father, for that matter. But you do have people here who care about you, Cap, and I hope you know that one of them is me. Sorry for getting serious on you after a winky face, but there’s something almost too easy about saying all this to a screen. Who knows, maybe you’re not even reading this. Maybe your phone’s dead and you said to hell with it and I’m sending all this out into the void. I hope you’re reading, though. If you are, then I have to say one more thing, and then I guess I’ll try and “sleep.” I realize I’m the one who started the whole “let me know you’re alive” thing, but I hope you’re doing more than just staying alive out there, Steve. Sweet dreams._

The message is a sucker punch. Steve had shared some of his thoughts, some of his worries with Tony, of course. They spent too much time together, were getting too close for him to keep _everything_ to himself, but reading his latest text confirms that Tony had been paying more attention than Steve gave him credit for. 

Until he can think of a reply that measures up to Tony’s note, Steve keeps riding. He’s heading to the Garden of the Gods, a National Park he heard about from a guest at one of his many small hotels. She’d recognized him, but it was more quiet acknowledgement than anything else, for which Steve was grateful. They got to talking, and he learned her name was Marcie and she was on her way to meet her long-distance girlfriend. She said it like a test, like she was daring him to make a face or a rude remark, and Steve saw her relax when he smiled and said, _good for you, that must be hard._ After that, they got along like a house on fire. 

Marcie had been to the Garden of the Gods a few trips ago. ( _My girlfriend was pissed I went alone, but there’s something beautiful about going alone. It’ll change your whole perspective, trust me.)_

Astonishingly, he did. 

Steve arrives a few hours before the park closes, and the people are few and far between. He walks up a trail, unsure which way to go, so he just keeps walking until he looks up and his breath catches. Miles and miles of stone pillars stretch up before him like smokestacks to heaven, or fingers reaching up to God. The setting sun makes it feel all the more ethereal, and he stops, right there, and sits down. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen. 

The first thing that comes to his mind is his mother, a lifelong Irish Catholic who would have called a view like this a miracle or a religious experience. Steve hasn’t been to church himself in years and years, but the air here feels charged, almost spiritual in a sense. So much so that it’s like she’s right beside him, squeezing his hand. He knows it’s impossible, but Steve would swear up, down, and sideways that as he sits there, taking it all in, he hears her, the ghost of a whisper, just past his ear, say, _My sunshine boy, how far you’ve come, how much more still to go. I always knew you’d keep getting back up, and now here you are. I love you._

He’s still for a long moment, refusing to believe it’s his own imagination, letting himself have it, whatever this is, knowing that it’s a once in a lifetime kind of thing. When Steve looks up, brewing his trance, his eyes are wet, and he brings a hand to his face and rubs hard, pulling in the deepest breath he’s taken in recent memory, and letting it out again.

Letting it all go. 

He feels like he’s lost something, lost his mother all over again, but it’s like he’s been given the opportunity to mourn her, to find his own peace, in a way that feels inexplicable. There’s no way to capture this moment, this _place_ on paper, but still Steve’s fingers itch for a pencil until he gives in, digging his small notebook from his backpack and trying, sketching and erasing and sketching again until a guard comes and lays a heavy hand on his shoulder, letting him know, in a way so patient Steve knows he’s done this before, that the park is closed. _Take your time, son,_ he says when Steve looks up at him, bleary-eyed and stunned to find himself sitting in the almost-darkness. 

Steve nods and thanks the man, knowing that the kindness he’s been shown time and again on this trip will stay with him long after he’s back in New York.

He’s making his way back to the parking lot, his bike the last vehicle in the enormous lot, when he realizes he hadn’t bought Tony a postcard at what was easily the most beautiful place he’s been so far. As he rides away, though, dust kicking up behind him, Steve thinks that some things can’t be captured on a postcard, and the Garden of the Gods is one of them. He’ll tell Tony about it himself, in person, when he gets back.

Having said goodbye to his mother, something Steve never expected to gain from this trip, he feels a new kind of clarity settle over him, and he knows, suddenly and without a doubt, what his next destination will be.

*

**_Arizona_ **

Bucky had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. He loved to tell Steve about all the things they were going to do together. When Steve got healthy. When the war ended. When they finally had two cents to rub together.

_You and me, Stevie. We’re gonna see the world, alright? Just do me a favor and stop bein’ a punk long enough to see it with me._

Letting the memories come as they may was one of the best and worst parts of this trip. Steve knows his therapist will be happy to hear about it when he gets back, but he’s always left feeling exhausted and overwhelmingly sad, though he knows he’s needed this for some time now. It’s normal, he knows. He’s just catching up with himself, giving thought and emotional capacity to things he’d never given a proper goodbye to. 

_They told me we won. They never said what we lost._

Steve can hear himself saying it to Fury months ago, and to himself just about every day since. Loss is something he knows intimately. So well it might as well have been riding right behind him on his bike. But he knows new things, too. He’s found beauty. He’s found remembrance and grief and friendship and joy, all these things he thought he couldn’t feel anymore are rushing back, a dam broken and rushing forth, finally free after years and years being held back. 

It’s a balance, Steve knows now. He’ll always miss his old life, but that doesn’t mean he needs to deprive himself of a new one. A new kind of happiness, a new kind of family. 

Maybe even a new kind of love. 

For now, though, Steve finds a quiet spot at the mouth of the Grand Canyon, away from the families and the park rangers and the employees hawking their photography skills. He sits, though the signs advise against it, right at the edge, looking out at one of the wonders of the world as it stretches out, blending with the sky seemingly forever, before him. It’s enough to take his breath away.

“We made it, Buck,” Steve says aloud, his voice lost to the wind and the drone of the people around him. It’s a gorgeous day, bright and sunny with just enough of a breeze to make it chilly without being cold. The canyon yawns before him like a devouring mouth, but for the first time, the fear of falling, or endless loss and darkness, don’t cross his mind. Despite being right at the lip of the canyon, he feels like he’s exactly where he needs to be. “I think you’d love it here.” 

Once again, the notebook and pencil, nothing more than a nub now, come out. Steve does his best, drawing himself and Bucky at the Grand Canyon. Bucky’s face is jubilant, just like it was in his dream, his arms stretched out wide as he yells, _We’re going to see the world, pal!_

Steve tears the page free, letting it blow away in the breeze. It might fall straight down, and by all logic, it _should_ fall, but a stronger gust catches it at just the right moment. It swirls around and around, like a dance, as Steve watches, entranced. He watches it until it’s out of sight, leaving him alone with his sketchbook full of stories, and a heart that feels both heavy and light at the same time. 

Steve isn’t sure how much time passes before he stands, brushes himself off, and makes his way to the small gift shop he’d passed on his way in. He makes his way to a sign that reads _Say hello from the Grand Canyon!_ and picks out a postcard, filling it out right there, and dropping it into a box to be mailed. It’s the first one he’s sent to Tony in the moment, before he was already well on his way to the next place, and it feels fitting. 

_Dear Tony,_

_Sorry it took me so long to write again. You’re not writing to the void, I promise. You’re right though, I think I’m doing a lot more than just staying alive on this trip. I spent today at the Grand Canyon. Have you ever been? You’re you so I’m assuming you’ve seen it all, but if not, you really have to go, it’s really something. I have a lot to tell you, but I think I’ll do it when I get home, if that’s okay._

_Steve_

_Home._ The thought comes, unexpected and uninvited, but for the first time, Steve knows without a doubt that the place he’s going back to, the people, the team, the feelings it gave him, _could_ be a home. Maybe he had to get away for a while in order to realize that something, somewhere outside of Brooklyn with Bucky and his ma, could even _feel_ like home again. 

*

**_Pennsylvania (again)_ **

Technically, Steve doesn’t have to return to the small nowhere town in Pennsylvania. He could drive through the night and get back to New York with enough time to get a few hours’ sleep before taking on the day, and, eventually, seeing Tony again for the first time in almost two months. But something in him wants to go back to where it all started. The first connection he made, the place he bought those first two postcards. And he still feels bad about lying to Sheila about his name. 

And maybe, just a little, Steve’s avoiding the fact that in a matter of hours he’ll have to deal with the anxious feeling growing in his chest at the thought of talking to Tony face to face again. 

He stays at the same little hotel, though it’s a different woman working at the front desk, no less friendly than the first. It’s strange, he thinks, that he was here such a short time ago when it feels like a lifetime. In the morning, Steve returns to the same little diner next door, and while he’s still hit with a rush of memory, feels the familiar slow, friendly atmosphere of the Moonlight Diner of his childhood, he’s glad to realize he’s made a new set of memories here. He’s _not_ a stranger this time. 

“Well, well, well, look who’s back! And so soon! I’ll be honest and say I never thought I’d see the kind face of Bucky Barnes in these parts again,” Sheila greets him, as jovial as ever.

“Hi,” Steve says, sheepish. He realizes he owes her his real name, at the very least. 

“Bacon, eggs, and rye toast, right?” She asks, and Steve looks up in surprise. She remembered his order? 

“You remembered! Yes, please. And, uh, it’s Steve, actually,” he confesses. “Steve Rogers. I was… a little lost, last time I was here.”

“Is Steve Rogers as nice as Bucky Barnes?” 

“Yes ma’am,” Steve nods as Sheila laughs. 

“Ma’am again! Oh, we really do need more like you around, Steve Rogers. Whatever you’re calling yourself these days, you’re more pleasant than most people we see in a week! I’ll go put that in for you, but when I get back, I want to hear about all those sights you and your alter ego were off to see.”

Steve ducks his head, smiling as she walks away. He knew he was right to come back here.

And he does tell her, between bites and other customers, all about his trip. The nice people he met, the things he saw. He leaves out some of the details, but he’s pretty proud of himself, opening up this way to a stranger. Even one as nice as Sheila. 

“You’re different this time, I gotta say,” Sheila says when Steve’s finished. She appraises him. “Chattier, happier, maybe, but…” She shakes her head. “I can’t put my finger on it, but it seems to me like you found whatever it was you were looking for, Steve.” 

He’s quiet for a minute. Because he had, hadn’t he? He wasn’t _fixed_ by any means, and he still missed his mother and Bucky, his whole _life_ like a limb, but he felt like he could go on, now. He realizes that living in the now doesn’t mean forgetting everything he had. He still had a long road to go, but… 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, I think I did.” 

She winks at him, and hands him the check. “Well, don’t forget about where your journey started once you get home, alright?”

Steve promises that he won’t. 

*

**_New York_ **

The three hour trip back to New York goes by in the blink of an eye, mainly because Steve’s body is vibrating with nerves, and it’s not from the rumbling engine beneath him. He _knows_ things with Tony will end up being fine. Tony can be a hot head, can take things more personally than others, but it’s not like they had a fight. They left things on uncertain terms, sure, but they’ve been talking on and off throughout Steve’s trip. It will be fine… _Won’t it?_ Every note Steve sent felt like sending a piece of his heart out into the world, and now he’s going to face the one person he trusted enough to send those pieces to. It’s a kind of vulnerability he isn’t used to, had never really been used to. At least, not since losing Bucky, but even then, Bucky often had to drag it out of him.

Steve’s thoughts wander as he drives, picturing Tony’s expressive brown eyes, how he wasn’t half as good as hiding his emotions as he thought he was; the glow of the arc reactor beside him as they watched movies with the team, the blue light soft and reassuring. By the time he gets back to the Tower, his feet take on a mind of their own, carrying him to Tony’s workshop before his brain dares intervene. He tries to formulate words to explain his trip, his feelings, why he’d had to go in the first place, but they all fizzle out the moment Tony looks up, brown eyes pleased but questioning. Steve realizes that he’s covered in hours of sweat and grime from riding, thinks that maybe he should’ve showered, composed himself somewhat. But it was like the moment he realized he wanted to be home, _this_ is what he meant. The team of course, but here, in the oil-soaked lab with Tony babbling away about a project, this is what he meant, and he wanted to be home as soon as possible. 

He must stand in the doorway a beat too long. 

“Captain Rogers, were you planning to join Sir in the workshop?” JARVIS asks, breaking Steve’s reverie. If an AI could sound amused, JARVIS certainly does. 

He nods, sets his jaw, and moves towards Tony, who seems to be doing his best to settle on an emotion. Steve thinks he lands somewhere between relief and apprehension, which isn’t the best, but still, far from the worst.

“Ah, Magellan, back to tell us about your discoveries?” Tony says quickly, like he’s setting a mask in place. 

Steve gives him a smile. “Something like that, yeah.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, moves a fraction of an inch closer to him. “I’m all ears,” he says, before adding: “It’s good to hear your voice. Your postcards were so…” 

Tony trails off, and it’s a few seconds before he looks up and meets Steve’s gaze. Anything Steve planned to say goes out the window at the emotion he sees there now, it’s so overwhelming. It’s everything neither of them have managed to say to each other in all this time, out loud or on paper, and for the first time, Steve allows himself to believe that maybe all this hasn’t been in his head. 

“They don’t leave a lot of room for storytelling,” Steve says. 

“You managed okay.”

“I’m sorry I left,” Steve says, though he knows he doesn’t have to. 

“You had to do it,” Tony says, like he understands. “I can fly away whenever I want, I get it.” 

“I thought about you. That, I mean,” Steve clarifies, his cheeks heating. “How it must feel to fly like that. My bike’s great, wouldn’t trade her for the world, but flying…” 

“Nothing like it,” Tony admits. “We can arrange a joyride for you if you like.” He winks, a show of composure, of confidence, when his face says anything but. 

Steve nods. “I felt like a stranger before I left. Like a guest, everywhere I went, and I wanted… but I didn’t think I could…” 

_Have this._ Let _myself have this. Be happy again. Let go of everything that’s happened. Move on. Stop the guilt_.

Steve has never been great with words, though there’s plenty of ways to end his sentence. Instead, he looks up at Tony one more time, sees the look in his eyes and, once again, his feet act before his head and he lurches forward until they’re centimeters apart instead of feet, just like they were that day, right before he panicked and left. This time, though, Steve has to _try_. He doesn’t think he’s making it up anymore, and he knows he’s not attaching himself to the first available person. Because Tony’s right. He has plenty of people who care about him here. Steve cares about them, too. 

But he is definitely, surely and without anymore doubt, only in love with one of them. 

“Welcome home, Steve,” Tony says, so soft and close that Steve feels his breath ghost over his lips, and that’s enough. He leans in and closes the distance. It’s slow for a second, awkward and messy with their noses bumping as they slide into a rhythm. Steve is out of practice, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind taking the lead. He wraps a hand around Steve’s wrist and pulls him in so they’re flush together, mouths and tongues exploring, warm and welcoming until they’re left breathless. 

When Steve opens his eyes again, neither of them move a muscle. Instead, Steve lets his forehead rest against Tony’s, smiling into warm brown eyes. _Home._ He still has stories to tell him, things to work through, _joyrides_ to take. But for now, Steve thinks he just got his first taste of flying: joy and freedom and breathlessness, buoyed by the knowledge that he has a safe place to land. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm omg-just-peachy on tumblr, come say hi :)


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